The Dragon Society (Obsidian Chronicles Book 2) Page 5

  It's Triv!"

  All six women turned to look, and all six voices were raised in greetings and invitations. Arlian could hardly refuse, and stepped into the room, where he found himself the target of a barrage of questions and exclamations.

  The four who had stayed at the Old Palace during his absence all remarked on the new scar on his cheek; Musk and Kitten gave cries of sympathy, while Lily wanted to know how it happened, and Hasty said, "I think it's very dashing!"

  He smiled, but did not explain how he had acquired it, and they were happy to drop the subject and barrage him with other questions, comments, and news.

  He tried to leave after a few moments' chatter, pleading the need to attend to household business, but Hasty forestalled that by pointing out that he ought to eat a proper luncheon, and he could do that as well in the sitting room as anywhere. She beckoned to a footman standing quietly to one side, and Arlian found himself compelled to stay and eat with the six women.

  This was no great hardship; in truth, he found their company delightful.

  The meal was brought, eaten, and cleared away while Arlian was subjected to detailed accounts of all he had missed while traveling, including the progress of Hasty's pregnancy, the romantic misadventures of various servants, the city's gossip about the Duke and his court, various preposterous rumors about Lord Enziet, Lord Drisheen, Lord Hardior, Lady Rime, Lord Belly, and Arlian himself, and a great deal of other trivia. He did not manage to leave the room until late in the afternoon.

  He wondered how four women who could not walk, and who presumably never left the palace, had gathered so much news, but did not ask them directly.

  Cricket and Brook seemed to be quite happy with their new surroundings, he thought, and happy to be reunited with the other women. Arlian was glad he had been able to give them this; he wished he were able to make others happy more often.

  He could not waste any time on happiness for himself, of course, until the dragons were all dead—and then he would die, so that the dragon within him would perish. His life, his strength, and his wealth were committed to that goal. The simple joys of life, of friends and family, were not for him, he knew that, but he took pleasure in seeing others experience them, and tearing himself away required an effort.

  The remainder of the day was devoted to re-establishing his own routine, and making sure his servants understood what was expected of them in regard to his wardrobe, his meals, his privacy, and so on.

  It was astonishing how many small matters needing his attention had accumulated in his absence—questions about replacing broken crockery, about what to plant in the gardens, now that spring was almost upon them, about what to tell tradesmen and messengers regarding his return. He had scarcely begun on these when he found himself yawning uncontrollably and resolved to go to bed.

  He told himself that he would get everything in shape the next day, and then begin planning his attacks on the dragons, recruiting other dragonheads to help him, gathering information ...

  The following morning Arlian went over the household accounts, which appeared to be in order. By the time he was able to tear himself away from that it was well past noon, and time to live up to his announced intentions and inspect his unexpected inheritance. He left instructions for what to do if Lord Wither or his representative came by during his absence, then wrapped his cloak around him and walked alone down the familiar streets of damp stone to Enziet's estate.

  His arrival was unlike any previous visit. Once he had broken in to this forbidding gray stone house, climbing up to the roof and lowering himself to a balcony overlooking the central courtyard; once he had come to the front door with a knife at the gate-guard's throat. He had never before been made welcome.

  This time he was greeted with deference, with bows and courtesies, which he acknowledged politely as he was shown inside. He was not certain, though, that even now he was actually welcome—the servants' faces were carefully blank as they answered his questions.

  The estate, he learned, was called the Grey House—

  a name that was apt, if unimaginative.

  This visit, his first as the owner, was brief. He spoke to a few members of the staff to be sure that Ferrezin had obeyed his order to free the slaves, and then spoke to Ferrezin himself to be sure that the promised inventory of Enziet's holdings had been begun.

  Guided by a footman, he found Ferrezin in the counting room behind the kitchens, in a state approaching panic because in fact the inventory, though started, was nowhere near complete. Rather than try to go over this meager beginning, Arlian decided it best to give the man more time to prepare. After all, given his own experiences in trying to manage the Old Palace, he well understood how little things could eat away at one's time.

  He did, however, ask Ferrezin about mine holdings in Deep Delving.

  Ferrezin frowned. "Lord Enziet did not own any mines there outright," he said, "but he did have a share in several mining operations."

  "Look into that first, then," Arlian said. "I want to know what I own there." He pulled a silver pendant from his pocket, and held it out so that the former steward could see the amethyst set into it. "In particular, I want more of these purple stones. This one came from a lead mine in Deep Delving—they sometimes occur in the galena, in the ore that yields lead and silver. I want you to send anyone who is not needed here out and around the city, to see whether any similar stones can be had from any of the jewelers in Manfort—or for that matter, in any of the surrounding towns, though I wouldn't bother with anything much farther than Westguard. And I want to know whether any of the miners in Deep Delving have bothered to collect these stones. I know they're considered worthless, but I have reasons for wanting them."

  Ferrezin blinked at the pendant, then looked up at his new master's face.

  "Of course," he said. "Ah ... will any purple crystals serve?"

  "I need this particular variety," Arlian said. "I will leave you the pendant, for comparison." He tossed the necklace to Ferrezin, who almost dropped it, snagging the chain at the last possible instant.

  "I will begin the search as soon as the inventory ..."

  Ferrezin began.

  "No," Arlian interrupted. "The stones are of the utmost urgency. I want you to send someone intelligent and trustworthy to Deep Delving at once—go yourself, if you cannot think of anyone else suitable. I want a search of the jewelers begun at once. The inventory is second in importance; the purple stones are first. If you need another sample, I may be able to provide one."

  Ferrezin nodded. "I see," he said.

  "I'll leave you to begin, then," Arlian said.

  Ferrezin watched him go, then looked down at the pendant and shook his head. It appeared his new employer was going to be at least as demanding and eccentric as the old.

  Three days after his return Arlian had not found time to return to the Grey House a second time, nor had he found an opportunity to visit the hall of the Dragon Society at all, to see for himself what the current situation was among his fellow dragonhearts and what reports of the events in the south had made their way into those chambers. He had not yet called upon Lord Wither, to thank him for Horn's assistance; nor had he had any further contact with Lady Rime, to inquire after her well-being.

  He saw no need for haste in these matters. He had attended to the most urgent concerns in his own home and business and in Enziet's, and felt it entirely sensible to take a few days to rest and recover from his journey before launching upon any major new activities. Horn had said Lord Wither would call upon him, rather than expecting a visit at his own estate or a meeting in the Dragon Society's hall on the Street of the Black Spire, so he was under no obligation to speak with his bene-factor.

  When he had everything back to normal, though, he promised himself that be would call on Wither and Rime, and visit the Society's hall, and go over his inheritance.

  v And when that was done he would begin preparations to kill the dragons—to hunt them down in their lairs and se
e whether obsidian really would kill them.

  Of course, he would need to find more obsidian and shape it into weapons, and even then he couldn't really be sure it would kill full-grown dragons as it had a newborn—he could only hope that it would.

  And he would need to find the dragons. He knew where one lair was, beneath the Desolation, and he could try his luck there. If he found them asleep, and killed them, and survived the experience—and manag-ing all three of these did not seem very likely—then he could worry about finding the others.

  For that, he would need help, he was syre—he would want to question the other members of the Dragon Society, and go through their archives, for information that might be useful in locating the other caverns.

  And that led, obviously, to the rather vexed question of just what he intended to do about the Dragon Society in the long run, and just how much he would want to tell them about his plans. He could not allow any of them to transform into dragons, but he had no desire to harm any of them any sooner than necessary.

  And of course, he now had his two great secrets about the dragons, and as a member of the Society he was obligated to share anything he knew of the great beasts—but how could he tell them that they were all doomed?

  He was still thinking about this, rather than actually doing anything about it, when Venlin informed him that he had another visitor.

  "Lord Wither, my lord," Venlin said.

  Arlian, sprawled comfortably on a silk-upholstered couch in the small salon, looked up at the old man, then glanced at the others in the room. Cricket was perched on the oak and leather chair by the hearth, and Lily curled up on the other couch; they had been discussing plans for the women's future when Venlin entered and announced this arrival.

  It was not unexpected, of course, and Arlian suspected that he knew what Wither wanted, why the old man had sent Horn to Arlian's aid, and why he had been using his sorcery to track Arlian.

  Arlian sighed, and gathered himself up.

  "I will speak with him in my study," he said. While he usually preferred to speak with guests in the small salon and keep his study more private, thanks to the late Lord Drisheen's clever idea of amputating feet to keep the brothel slaves from attempting to escape it was far easier for Arlian to move himself and Lord Wither than the two women.

  The study seemed somehow appropriate, in any case; that was where he had first met Lord Wither, shortly after Lord Obsidian had first arrived in Manfort It was odd to remember that meeting, Arlian thought as he ambled down the passage to the study.

  He had been so young then, and so naive—yet how long ago had it really been? Just a few months, not even a year.

  He had not yet fought a duel when he first met with Lord Wither. He had not yet joined the Dragon Society—it had been Lord Wither who first told him how to find the secretive organization.

  Oh, he had not been a total innocent—he had already spent years working in the mines and months hidden in a brothel, had already stolen Lord Kuruvan's gold and journeyed across the Desolation to the magic-haunted Borderlands, and beyond the Dreaming Mountains to Arithei. He had survived dragons and slavery and made himself wealthy, and he had burned for revenge against those who had wronged him. He had killed a man in battle.

  But he had not been weighed down with secrets. He had not had half a dozen mutilated women dependent upon him, and had not had another die in his arms. He had not seen so much death and horror.

  Venlin had gone to fetch Lord Wither, and for a moment Arlian was alone. He stood in the entrance to the study, looking about.

  The desk and the cabinets and the bookshelves were all clean and tidy, the varnished wood gleaming in the midday sun that thrust in through the two tall windows. Arlian crossed the room and pulled the draperies across the panes; somehow he didn't think Lord Wither was fond of daylight.

  As he did, though, he paused, hands still clutching the maroon velvet, to consider that thought. Why was he so certain that Lord Wither would not care for the sun?

  When he realized what his unconscious logic had been his jaw tightened, his teeth pressed hard shut.

  Lord Wither had lived for centuries with the heart of the dragon—how many centuries Arlian was not entirely certain, but at least eight hundred years had passed since Lord Wither reached manhood. The venom had festered and grown within him, and now, while his shape was as human as ever, Arlian knew that the toxic ichor of a dragon flowed in his veins where human blood had once been. By now Wither was surely as much dragon as human in many ways—

  and dragons did not abide direct sunlight; they dwelt in caverns and emerged only when the skies were darkened with clouds. He still stood, hands on the drapes, when Venlin announced, "Lord Wither."

  Arlian's hands dropped, and he turned to face his guest.

  Lord Wither was a stooped old man; never tall to begin with, he was shrunk and bent with age, fitting the name he had borne for centuries. The name had originally been applied to him not only because of the ravages of time, but because his right arm was shriveled and almost lifeless, ruined in the draconic encounter that had given him his extended lifespan.

  Still, despite his stature and condition, Lord Wither was not a man to be trifled with. Beneath his thick mass of gray hair blazed a pair of fierce, deep-set green eyes, intimidating in their intensity; the heart of the dragon was strong in him.

  He was master of more ordinary power as well—political connections, and immense wealth that was reflected In his attire. He wore his hair pulled back in a simple ponytail nothing like the current fashionable styles, but his clothing was in the latest mode, and ex-travagantly well made. His coat was green velvet trimmed with gold, with long white lace cuffs and a collar faced with white silk; the sleeves and cuffs were skillfully tailored to obscure his deformity. The shirt beneath was white as snow, elaborately ruffled, and his breeches were fine black wool.

  Over his coat he wore a black leather sword belt set with emeralds, and the left-handed sword hilt protruding from the beaded scabbard was inlaid with silver, pearl, and diamond. Wearing a sword into another lord's home would ordinarily have been a grave breach of etiquette, but an exception was invariably made for Lord Wither; the customary excuse was that it would be unkind to ask a person with but one useful hand to unbuckle and buckle a belt, but Arlian was fairly sure that it was really because no one dared argue with such a man. Those eyes were enough to deter anyone.

  Lord Wither stepped into the room, and Venlin quietly closed the door from without, leaving the two lords alone in the study, standing a few feet apart, gazing intently at one another.

  "Lord Wither," Arlian said, taking a step away from the window. "How good to see you!" He did not extend a hand; Wither, with his crippled arm, never shook hands.

  "Let us dispense with the usual polite lies," Wither replied, looking up at Arlian's face, and more specifically at the scar on Arlian's cheek. Wither's voice was deeper and richer than one would expect from so small a man. "You are not pleased to see me at all, and we both know it."

  "You misjudge, my lord," Arlian said. "I will not pretend to take any great pleasure in your company for its own sake, but I am nonetheless glad to see you. I am grateful for your assistance upon my arrival at the city gate; I acknowledge myself in your debt, and I prefer to pay my debts promptly. Further, I am hopeful that we may be able to exchange information or other intangibles to our mutual benefit."

  "I'm not here for intangibles," Wither snapped.

  "What I want from you is quite real and substantial."

  "Indeed," Arlian replied. "And what would that be?"

  "Dragon venom," Wither said. "Lord Enziet promised to fetch me venom, and you, I am informed, are Enziet's heir and successor. You pursued him into the Desolation, and saw where he died. You are a dealer in magic, you've made your fortune at it, and you are a dragonheart obsessed with gaining vengeance upon the dragons—you would surely not have passed up a chance to learn more of their secrets. Furthermore, I can see with m
y own eyes that you have encountered a dragon's venom since last we met, for nothing else could have scarred a dragonheart's face that way. If anyone can provide the venom Enziet promised me, you are that man. If you have it, name your price! You say you are in my debt—well, this is how you can repay me."

  "Ah," Arlian said. He leaned back against his desk.

  "I feared as much. And this is why you sent your man Horn to protect me?"

  "Of course. If Drisheen's hireling had slain you, who knows what would have become of any venom you carried? If you have none in your possession, what would become of the knowledge of its whereabouts? I saw you safely into the city so that we could have this conversation, and you could repay me with venom. If you do not think your life alone to be worth it, I will pay you anything in my power. I must have it!"

  Ariian sighed. "I would offer you a seat, my lord, but I suspect this conversation will be brief. It seems to neatly parallel our first, some months ago. Once again, you seek this dragon venom to extend the life of your mistress, yes? And once again, I must confess that I have no venom to sell you."

  "You killed Enziet before he could get it? Then what marked your cheek?"

  "I have not said that I killed Enziet He thrust the blade into his own chest, my lord—and yes, he did so before entering the cavern where the dragons slept If he had any of die venom in his possession, I am unaware of it"

  "But you saw him die. You know where he was going."

  "I saw him die," Ariian admitted warily.

  "And that scar..."

  "... is none of your concern. I must insist on that"

  Ariian had already refused to explain the mark several times, to various people; it had, in fact been left by the venom of the dragon Enziet had become, and Ariian was not yet ready to reveal that to anyone—certainly not to Lord Wither.